


look the innocent flower

by thimble



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 12:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12013092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: You were named after the camellia; it symbolizes many things, but most of all it is fresh renewal after a season of ice, the blush of a landscape when its face begins to slowly thaw.You want a warmth just like that, but it's been winter your whole life.





	look the innocent flower

**_of daughters_ **

  
  
  
you remember your mother in shades of lavender.

there's the scent of her clothes wafting under your nose when she holds you close, and the mauve lining of her dresses sweeping the floor when she turns every head in court. most of all, there's her hair, graceful as a waterfall when shaken free down her spine, or shimmering like a constellation when piled on top of her head and adorned with pins and barrettes. it's her crowning glory, and why she says your father spotted her from a dirty crowd and brought her into his chambers.

your hair is the same color, and you see it every time you look in the mirror. don't forget, she tells you, as she brushes the knots and tangles out of it while you sit, tight-lipped with your hands in your lap. (you used to protest, used to cry from the pain; she was quick to spit that pain is beauty and beauty is all either of you have.)

when your hair, sweet-smelling and soft, finally cascades down your shoulders like hers, she leans in to whisper to both your reflections, don't forget where we came from and where we might return.

you remember your mother in shades of lavender, and you love her.

  
  
  


**_of perfection_ **

  
  
  
as your father's child you have the privilege of the very best education the kingdom has to offer. it stands to reason that you, also, have to be the very best the kingdom has to offer.

in the morning you learn to curtsy, how to bow and sit like a lady. a rod is used to straighten your posture, to guide your steps when you walk. poise, you realize, is not a natural or ingrained thing, but something beaten into girls the moment they even think of slouching. you are a princess, your teachers remind you every day, short of making you spell it out in your embroidery. you must act like one.

more than that, you are a princess of nohr, always ready to ride out into battle. gone are your books and your teacups in the afternoon, replaced by the hilt of a sword in your palms. (you won't realize you prefer the axe until much later, but you swing both blades with equal ferocity.) instead of threads and needles, you hold reins, for the wyvern you are yet to name.

you excel as both jewel and warrior, but it's not enough.

you are your father's child, and your mother teaches you – this is the most important lesson of all – that you must be the only one.

  
  
  


**_of the divine_ **

  
  
  
your existence is an entry into a competition, you soon find out through the poison lacing your cup.

your mother is the king's lover, but she's one among many. you are one of his children, and, as the other mothers have decided, a rival for his affections.

it's not as if you're unaware of the others in your position dying in less-than-mysterious ways. one of your half-sisters never woke up from her sleep just weeks ago. before that, one of your half-brothers was 'accidentally' slain in training. it's a string of tragedies, but it's not news to anyone in the castle.

your turn to be the next funeral comes as a a seize in your throat at the dining table. you choke on nothing while foam dribbles out of your lips, and it has your mother rising from her chair to be at your side in record time. she's brushing your hair from your damp forehead as she cradles you in your arms, calling for the doctors, the servants, anyone, to save her little girl.

don't you die on me, she says, and you wonder if the preemptive grief in her eyes is real.

(it's real; it's as real as a merchant mourning a lost pot of gold.)

you love your mother, but she doesn't love you.

  
  
  


**_of faithfulness_ **

  
  
  
after a while, only five of you remain. you resolve to love the siblings you're left with, as fiercely as the sun loves the earth.

xander is a difficult case, because you only ever seem to see him from afar. sometimes you pass him in the halls, as tall and as proud as a nohrian turret, and sometimes you spar, often a one-sided affair. he's unapproachable not like an untamed horse might be unapproachable, too wild to risk getting trampled on. he's more like a fortress, one too steady to dream of entering.

(you love him for his walls, intentionally erected to protect you as both older brother and prince.)

leo is difficult in a different way, having always been a colt too eager to grow up. too eager, perhaps, that you seem to have missed when he did, suddenly out of your reach in his studies and skills. he'll star in many a legend someday, exactly the kind of noble a bard would sing about, though you forget that what he wants is to be more than a footnote in your heart first.

(you love him as one might a hurricane, knowing that even without your help it will blow the world away.)

elise is easy, like adoring a star for shining is easy. that's what she is, in this dark place you call home. she thinks you her hero and it's hard to think of the right words to tell her that she is yours. you're a flower in a barren land, and you've fabricated thorns around yourself, having lost your innocence long ago. despite having gone through the same things, she's held onto hers without fear of getting hurt, only of hurting others.

(you love her and her light, a candle unwavering in the midst of a storm, and you will fight to keep it burning until you're no longer able.)

and corrin – they are the easiest of all, lonely in a way not even you were lonely, surrounded by your glass-eyed dolls and the mother who looked at you with a gaze too similar. but at the very least, you had a mother, and they didn't have the luxury. assuming the role for them comes to you like breathing, comes to you like the ocean crashing upon the shoreline as breathing becomes labored with your chest feeling so full. you want to show them everything they've missed, being secluded for so long. you want to take them somewhere war hasn't touched, though it's an impossible dream. you want to love them like you weren't.

(you love them, and you will spend the rest of your days making certain they remember.)

  
  
  


**_of longing_ **

  
  
  
your mother doesn't love you. that is the crux of the matter, the meat of this tale, the fact you're forced to live with even when she's gone. they say you bear her eyes (though hers are always wary while yours are kind), her smile (hers, as pristine as a glass sculpture and just as transparent; yours, saccharine and hiding a serpent), her lovely hair (your father's favorite part, don't forget.) you are her spitting image, and her extension. you used to cry over this, however the reddened face and swollen eyes momentarily marred your beauty.

your mother doesn't love you, and this gives you purpose you wouldn't have if she did:

you will love enough to make up for it.

  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
you were named after the camellia. your mother said a field of them meant a second chance at life, a new beginning. because of this, you try to bloom where it is dark and cold, becoming the warmth that no one else feels.

you're still waiting for spring.


End file.
